


lovers.

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, Romance, This literally didn't fit anywhere else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:05:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5715397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To any stranger, they are enemies. But to any genuine observer, they are lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I whipped up that didn't fit anywhere else. It doesn't fit in with any of my other modern AUs, so who knows? This might become a dump for musings that don't fit with anything. I'm making it as complete for now, but more might happen over time.

They’re a strange sight for onlookers. Death and life personified, squeezed into the small space between the chrome-trimmed table and the worn cherry-red booth.

He’s too tall for the booth, legs and arms and back curled in on themselves as he tries to fit as best as he can. She’s too small, having to lean over a good bit in order to steal one of his fries. He glares at her over the cover of his textbook, and she grins cheekily right back, dipping his fry in her vanilla milkshake before popping it into her mouth. 

To any stranger, they are enemies. 

They exchange glares back and forth, small tan fingers stealing fries and long pale ones stealing onion rings. Rolled eyes are common, as are subtle tongues poking out from pouting lips. They fight with knowing looks and stolen snacks, not one word spoken between them.

But to any genuine observer, they are lovers. 

When she slaps his hand as he reaches for an onion ring, her fingers linger just a bit too long. His mocking smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and her feet are entangled with his under the table. There are pink lip marks on the red-and-white striped straws in both milkshakes from her tinted lip balm, and she hands him different coloured highlighters at the twitch of his eyebrow. 

There’s an iPod Nano between them; a slim, grey little thing with a disproportionately large splitter coming out of the end. They’d given up on sharing earbuds months ago, the space between them at the table too large for either of them to listen comfortably. He’d bought the splitter at the convenience store a block from their apartment, a giant red heart-shaped thing that he’d placed in her hand and then watched as she’d cried laughing. It’s not fantastic, but it works well enough. The mix they listen to is, at best, a cacophony of random songs. Occasionally her finger will reach out to skip the song - occasionally his does the same. Neither complain, accepting the other’s decision wordlessly. 

He finishes his reading. She finishes her drawing. He slips his highlighters into the designated spots in his organizer. She dumps her pencils and sharpener back into the canvas and leather bag he purchased for her last March, ‘REY’ stamped into the hide. The canvas inside is forever stained with charcoal and graphite and escaped pencil shavings. 

The onion rings are long gone, and so she takes the last fry in the basket instead. He stares at her in what can only be described as annoyance and sadness rolled into one pathetic expression. 

“That was my last fry.” 

It’s the most either have them have spoken in hours. They hadn't needed to. They communicate well enough without saying anything at all. He knows that her nose crinkles when she's messed up, and he wordlessly slips the eraser to her. She knows that his fingers tap against the page when he needs to take notes, and she hands him a pen from his organizer without an uttered syllable. 

She chews the cold fry, swallows a moment later. She grins at him, hands slipping into the pocket of her off-white sweatshirt. She has to go up on her toes to kiss him, and even then it’s only a chaste peck. It’s a team effort to properly kiss him - she has to go up, he has to go down. 

On the way out, she grabs him a green and brown mint from the bowl, starkly dark in the pile of red and white. He tears open the package and sucks on the candy, still glowering about his lost fry. When she kisses him a few moments later in the cold March air, it’ll taste of chocolate, mint, her stolen cherry Chapstick, and salt. 

Her hand’s too small, his too big, but they manage to make it work. He gives her one of his leather gloves, his bare hand tucked into the pocket of his coat. The glove’s too big for her, and would slide off of her hand if he wasn’t holding her fingers in his. But she’s giddy nonetheless, feeling the warmth of the fleece and leather, and the heat from his hand grasping hers tightly as if she's going to run at any moment. She squeezes his hand, assuring him wordlessly that she's not going anywhere, and he relaxes beside her. 

She shivers in her worn sweatshirt, the fabric soft but thin from years of washes. He lets go of her hand to pull her close to his side, tucking her body against his. 

To any genuine observer, they are lovers.


	2. together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, something that didn't fit anywhere else. I'm just going to dump things here.

She’s abandoned her shoes in the back seat. She’s not even sure they can be called shoes anymore, the fabric held together by old rubber and dirtied laces and faded song lyrics. 

She’s braced her one foot against the dash, the second dangling out the window. He scolded her for that, once upon a time, claiming one day she’s going to lose it to a stop sign that’s leaning over just a bit too far. But he lets her today, the sun warming her toes as they drive down the desert road. 

If the window was up, she would be able to see the sand through her doodles on the dusty glass. But instead she gets an uninterrupted view of red and brown and cream, the barest specks of green sometimes visible. It’s ugly, almost but not quite dead. She’s glad to be leaving. 

One of his songs comes on the radio, their shared iPod plugged into the AUX. She twists her body to skip it, and ends up skipping one of hers as well by mistake. She leaves it be, turning her eyes back to the world quickly passing around her. 

She has his leather jacket draped over her. The AC was freezing on her thighs and upper arms until she reached into the backseat to grab his jacket. It smells like him, of sweat and leather and his cologne. She snuggles into it, letting her head fall back against the seat. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going. They turned off the GPS about three hours ago, just driving east. They’ll get to New Orleans eventually. One of these days. Or maybe they’ll end up in Colorado. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t really care, as long as it’s away. 

She lets her eyes close. She can hear the whirring of the AC, the soft grind of the tires against the dirty road, the gentle sound of his breath beside her. Occasionally there’s the creak of his body moving against the leather seat, finding a new position. 

She sits up abruptly when one of her songs comes on, the leather jacket slipping from her shoulders and exposing her tan skin to the cold air. She perks up, opening her mouth to sing the first verse when he leans over and presses the skip button. 

“Why?” she demands. 

“You sound like Scuttle when you sing,” is his only explanation. 

She can’t argue with that. 

Her back hurts from leaning against the arm rest, and she tucks her body into the seat, rolling the window up. There are hearts and smiley faces on the dirty glass. They’re on his side, too, an arrow pointing to his seat with ‘EMO’ written in messy print. 

He’ll wash it off at the next gas station, he said. That was maybe three months ago, now. 

She curls towards him. He reaches his hand out to rest on her knee, stroking her tan skin. She missed a spot shaving, she knows - but he doesn’t seem to mind, stroking the hollow of her kneecap. 

She lets him touch her leg for a few moments before she reaches forward to take his hand. Her hands too small, his too big, but it’s warm and comforting and shields her fingers from the AC blowing on them. She reaches to turn her side down. He turns his up. He’s ice cold, and she’s sun warm. 

She vaguely remembers the night before, spent in a diner parking lot. Him lying between her hips in the backseat, exchanging lazy kisses that taste like Dr. Pepper and her chapstick. They’d fogged the windows up, but no one dared to tap on the glass. She’d seen headlights, occasionally, blinding her and casting him in sharp contrast. He was beautiful, then, all sharp angles and stark lines. She wonders if she looked beautiful, too. 

His thumb strokes along the back of her hand. A song comes on that neither of them really like. His hands are on the wheel and intertwined with hers. She can’t be bothered to lean over to switch it. 

They don’t know where they’re going. 

She dreams of green and rain. He dreams of a job, one with cameras and film and a dark room all his own. She dreams of him in the same bed with her, each and every night. He dreams of a wedding, quick and easy and followed by a night of exploring whatever city they’re in. Neither of them dream of little feet, not yet, though he’s caught her staring at the small pants and minuscule onesies in Target more than once. 

They don’t know where they’re going. But wherever that is, they’ll go together.


End file.
